It dawned on me the next day that my 30-year-old son was probably the oldest person in the group other than myself. Here I was, one month shy of 57 years old, amid a group of 12 adventurers and three guides (all of whom were twenty-something) rafting the whitewater rapids of Six Mile River in the Kenai Peninsula located in Southwestern Alaska, about 100 miles from Anchorage.
Although I was seriously out of shape, I dug my oar in the water of the first canyon on our trip while our guide, Pete, barked orders.
“Right Forward!” “All Forward!” “All Back!” ‘’Left Forward!”
The ride down the first two canyons consisted of alternate bouts of frenzied activity, where adrenaline-fueled precision paddling kept our boats upright as we shot over waterfalls, rocks, and whirlpools.
Periods of relative calm followed these rushes as Pete maneuvered our craft into eddies and drifted us by the edge of the river to show us bear tracks where a mother and cub had been sighted earlier in the day. Eagles and hawks drifted overhead, and it began to dawn upon me that things were taking on a feral air.
Fatigued, my mind nevertheless raced with elation as we continued down the canyon. Although I had read that this trek took us down a Level 4 canyon, this term held no relevance for me. I discovered later those Level 4 canyons were considered the second most difficult canyons to navigate the whitewater rapids while a Level 5 canyon was the most difficult. Unbeknownst to me until later, the first two canyons we rafted were rated as Level 4 canyons, while the third canyon up ahead was considered a level 5 — the most hazardous.
I was excited. The primitive nature of our surroundings thrust me back in time — to a time man lived by his wits, surviving against the elemental forces of nature. The wind and water blew in my face as we traveled down the river, enhancing the wildness festering, growing inside of me.
I felt surges of energy mingled with the gnawing feeling of exhaustion. I realized the deep-seated fatigue had begun to settle in because I started to miss the cues Pete gave us. I paddled backward when I should have gone forward. I paddled when I should have rested. I knew I was becoming extremely physically spent because I was too focused on regaining my concentration to even consider stuffing my oar down Pete’s throat on those many occasions when he reminded me of my shortcomings. He was tougher than the drill sergeant I remembered from my initial training in the air force. Pete’s comments lessened somewhat when, which a tremendous effort of will, In was able to get my body to paddle forward at the right time, paddle back at the right time, and rest — glorious rest — at the right time.
I was feeling great. My feet and hands were wet and cold. My body. Underneath the dry suit issued to me, was slick with perspiration. I was exhausted to point of blacking out. My legs ached from jamming my feet under the boat pontoons to keep myself anchored to the boat; my arm muscles ached beyond belief; wind and water spray pelted my face; and every bone in my body shook and jarred every time the raft hit the rocks in the river or crashed against the side of the ravine. Despite all the discomfort, exhilaration and euphoria ran rampant as our tiny raft plunged down the canyon, battling the raw power of nature and winning, at least temporarily: I felt alive!
As we completed our trek through the second canyon, a guide on another raft yelled something about a “swim test.” I remember thinking maybe I should tell someone I don’t swim very well when we all disembarked and one of the guides led us up the side of a hill until we on a bank about 50 feet up overlooking the river. Then, like lemmings racing to the seas, everyone, including my son, leapt into the river below. Everyone, except myself, of course.
As we started down, I realized I had failed to communicate my limitations about swimming when the guide escorted me to another spot about 35 feet up from the flowing river. The guide said he wanted me to see the view. As I leaned over to enjoy the view, I felt the guide’s hand gently on my back, encouraging me to jump.
I will never admit I was pushed.
Let’s just say, for a millisecond, my enthusiasm overrode my common sense, and I found myself hurtling from solid earth into the swirling river below.
When I hit the water, I remember noting I didn’t hit bottom. I’m six foot, three inches tall and weighed 245 pounds, so when I didn’t hit bottom, I figured it must be deep.
When I was about 20 feet under, I realized I still had my glasses on. I wasn’t worried about losing them; I had them connected to a holding strap and my helmet was in place wedging them on my head. I did wonder if I had shattered them.
I also marveled at the number of thoughts running through one’s head at 20 feet below the surface of the water. The final item racing through my mind as I headed for the surface was the fact that I wasn’t a particularly good swimmer.
“What have I gotten myself into now?”
As I started swimming toward the bank, I realized the water was flowing at a fast clip. I flowed at about 10 miles per hour, which doesn’t seem like much until you are swimming in 30 feet of feet of it trying to reach a small patch of beach before you get swept downstream.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. I tried to suck in all the oxygen in
Alaska with each deep breath. My arms flailed against the rushing water. I didn’t know whether to scream for help or keep going. I must have looked to the others like I was doing okay. When I noticed them, they seemed to be talking amongst themselves. I kept stroking my arms in an overhand stroke, pausing only to see if my feet could hit bottom. I was amazed (and scared) that it was so deep this close to shore.
I persevered and eventually my feet hit bottom and I dragged my beaten, exhausted body up on the shore.
When I stood there, wobbly from exhaustion, elated and enthusiastic, never more alive, and trying to look cool, two of the original thrill-seekers departed. My son and I quickly conferred. Although we had originally only planned to do the first two canyons, we agreed we could do the third canyon. I didn’t realize at the time the third can yon was rated as a Level 5 canyon, the most difficult. Considering my high level of enthusiasm at the time, it would not have made any difference.
I did realize, however, that my exhaustion level was so severe, I didn’t have a prayer of holding my own paddling the oars. I asked to be transferred to a larger raft which had a metal frame to hold larger oars. With the frame and the larger boat’s higher stability, one of the guides did the paddling. As the only passenger, I reasoned all I had to do was hold on. As it turned out even that task proved extremely difficult.
Once underway, my new guide and chauffer, Brian, announced we would have to disembark and portage around a particularly bad and hazardous spot on the river. My mind flashed on a nice easy trail. We reached the spot and Brian instructed me to walk over toa certain area and wait while they carried the rafts over the racks.
I soon noted even working over the area was extremely hazardous. Razor sharp rocks awaited the hapless individual who slipped as he or she made their way over slimy, moss-covered stones. I slipped and lost my balance, my legs sliding in the water. Scrambling up, I perched on a rock, then moved carefully to the next rock, thinking, “This is hard work.”
It would have been extremely hard even if I wasn’t completely and utterly exhausted. Somehow, I made it to the designated waiting spot.
My son had already arrived ahead of me. Under the circumstances, I would have been embarrassed with my stumbling performance; but I was too tired and too grateful to have arrived unscathed to care if I was embarrassed or not. Besides, I had noticed some of the twenty-somethings were also having difficulty navigating the rocky area.
As we stood there, watching the guides struggle to get the rafts across the rocks and rushing water, time froze.
My son, always the warrior -poet, turned to me and together we gazed at the tableau before us. We saw the raw power of nature as the guides worked to get the rafts over the rocks. We felt the wind whistling through the canyon and saw the sun beating down the center of the ravine, creating shadows along the sides of the canyon walls. We saw the tremendous force of the water rushing down the rocks, creating rapids which dropped off into the canyon floor.
Time stood still as we embraced this sight.
“Dad, this is Alaska.”
“What do you mean?” Exhausted 56-year-old dads are very dense.
“THIS is Alaska, not Anchorage.”
As usual, my warrior-poet son was right on target. Here we were amid one of the most elemental powers of the universe. A raging river flowing through the wilderness, part of the last frontier: Wild Alaska!
Even though the most hazardous part of our rafting trip had yet to begin, the rest of journey seemed anti-climatic to me. That moment crystallized the entire experience into a timeless memory which spoke volumes.
Later, as we resumed our journey, my boat hurled me out as it dived into the water at a right angle and inertia propelled me straight ahead. There I was, suspended in midair facing the tumultuous river, and my mind froze. No significant last thoughts. I don’t remember thinking anything in those few seconds as I found myself suspended in midair facing the raging river. Had I thought anything, I can only hope it would have been something momentous — worthy of 56 years of life.
Somehow, a miracle occurred. I didn’t go over the side into the rocks and swirling waters. The raft suddenly surfaced below me, and I fell back in as gravity drew me downward.
I do remember noticing Brian having a strange expression on his face.
As we continued, Brian and I made it through two more serious waterfalls, before tackling the final obstacle, known as “Jaws.” Somehow, Brian and I made it through Jaws, but Pete’s raft (with my son) on board) wasn’t so lucky. One error, and Pete’s raft rammed into a rock at the summit of Jaws and spilled everybody out into the raging river. Fortunately, others were able to rescue them from the swift torrents of water. I remember the feeling of helplessness and the surge of relief I felt when my son surfaced, standing in shoulder deep water, raising his arms in a victory symbol. After a head count, we determined everyone had survived with not serious injuries.
Pete’s raft had wedged itself underneath an underwater rock and it took the guides 45 minutes to dislodge the craft. Then the journey resumed.
I knew when we concluded our adventure, I would need help removing the dry suit. I was too debilitated. My thigh muscles throbbed from wedging my feet under pontoons to stay on the rafts.
I didn’t care.
If I needed help, so be it.
I had experienced something few people experience in a lifetime.
I had tasted the frontier. I not only tasted it, but I had also devoured it with every fiber of my being.
I had experienced Wild Alaska.
This is Alaska.
The End
****
Thank you for reading. I wrote this in 1997 after my trip to Alaska — I hope you enjoyed the rantings of an Alaskan whitewater rafting survivor